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Archive | November 2016

.We sat sated in the den
ready for pie; but not quite
needing to sit a bit, settle our
bloated tummies, because
it was after the turkey,
after the rolls, after the potatoes,
the gravy, cranberries,
the vegetables, the stuffing,
the bounty of the feast we call
Thanksgiving, when seconds
become thirds, and the eye is
bigger than the stomach,
and eating is expected
Because cooking is love
and love is eating all of it
and we sit quietly, letting
the tryptophan do its thing
slowly easing the day
and making us ready
for dessert

Like this:

.Show’s over, folks. And didn’t October doA bang-up job? Crisp breezes, full-throated criesOf migrating geese, low-floating coral moon.Nothing left but fool’s gold in the trees.Did I love it enough, the full-throttle foliage,While it lasted? Was I dazzled? The beesHave up and quit their last-ditch flights of forageAnd gone to shiver in their winter clusters.Field mice hit the barns, big squirrels gorgeOn busted chestnuts. A sky like hardened plasterHovers. The pasty river, its next of kin,Coughs up reed grass fat as feather dusters.Even the swarms of kids have given inTo winter’s big excuse, boxed-in allure:TVs ricochet light behind pulled curtains.The days throw up a closed sign around four.The hapless customer who’d wanted somethingArrives to find lights out, a bolted door.

Like this:

“In November, some birds move away and some birds stay. The air is full of good-byes and well-wishes. The birds who are leaving look very serious. No silly spring chirping now. They have long journeys and must watch where they are going. The staying birds are serious, too, for cold times lie ahead. Hard times. All berries will be treasures.”
― Cynthia Rylant, In November

.We walked five blocks to the elementary school, my mother’s high heels crunching through playground gravel. We entered through a side door.Down the long corridor, decorated with Halloween masks, health department safety posters— we followed the arrows to the third grade classroom.My mother stepped alone into the booth, pulling the curtain behind her. I could see only the backs of her calves in crinkled nylons.A partial vanishing, then reappearing pocketbook crooked on her elbow, our mayor’s button pinned to her lapel. Even then I could see—to chooseis to follow what has already been decided.We marched back out finding a new way back down streets named for flowers and accomplished men. I said their names out loud, as we foundour way home, to the cramped house, the devoted porch light left on, the customary meatloaf.I remember, in the classroom converted into a voting place— there were two mothers, conversing, squeezed into the children’s desk chairs.